Bringing Raylan Home
by Niente Zero
Summary: Raylan gets himself grabbed by the boys from Miami. Tim calls in a favor and rides in to save the day.


_Disclaimer - No copyright infringement intended. Not making any money. Just taking my "TV Southern accent" for a spin. This is really just the most unabashed pulp fiction written in response to an lj commentfic prompt, but you can take it seriously if you like!  
_

How you could tell that the dump Raylan Givens was staying in had been turned over was somewhat of a mystery to Chief Deputy US marshal Art Mullen, but there it was, and there he was, and there Raylan, emphatically, was not. His hat was there, nor had his gun been taken, which was a clue that Deputy Marshal Givens had perhaps not left the vicinity by voluntary choice. Especially since Art didn't rightly remember a time when Raylan Givens would be willingly parted from either item.

"Aw shit."

Art considered preserving the scene, but the first thing that stuck out, aside from the absence of Raylan, was a matchbook lying half under the bed, which was appropriate, seeing as how it was from a South Beach club by the name of B.E.D., which gave Art an inkling as to the whereabouts of his missing deputy.

Call it the good ol' boys club, call it Art's instinctive tendency to trust a man who's seen combat to be capable of the kind of vigilante bullshit with which Art couldn't afford to be associated, (not and keep his job, which selfishly enough he'd prefer to do, even if that was only so he could ride herd on the bunch of lunatic misfits that seemed to wash up under his command), but the call Art made wasn't to Deputy Brooks, Raylan Givens's sometime partner. Deputy Brooks was a fine peace officer. Most of the time Art truly appreciated her ability to administer the law within the bounds set out for the US Marshals' office. But this was not such a time. This was the time for the strategic application of a talent for violence mostly kept tightly in reign. Art hit the speed dial on his phone.

"Gutterson?"

-o-o-o-

It was the smell that woke Raylan up. Firstly, he knew the smell of blood too well. His face felt sticky with it. But that wasn't what stirred him. Nope, the air was rich with humidity, ozone and ocean. Which would be quite a feat if he was still landlocked in Kentucky. Somewhere someone was frying plantains, and much as Raylan had grown to love that particular culinary treat, the olfactory news of his circumstances was not as he could have wished.

"Aw shit."

Sonsabitches apparently felt the need to strip Raylan to his shorts and cuff him to a chunk of pipe embedded in a concrete wall. The room or cell was just long enough to stretch his legs out. Least he was in out of the sun, and sitting down. Small mercies.

Raylan wished he could scratch his head. He must have taken a blow to it, there was a definite itchy scabbing of blood over his left eye, pulling at his hair. Not that the rest of him was much more comfortable, but it was the small things that seemed to vex most, not the stiffness of being in one position for - anyway, how long had he been here? Here being, presumably, Miami. Plate of plantain chips and a cold beer'd go down right well about now. Probably what he was going to get was a load of bullshit about shooting Tommy Bucks and whatever imaginative torture made the cartel bosses feel like big men.

Raylan's head slumped back against the concrete wall. Must have done something wildly lacking in common sense to let these particular bastards get the drop on him when of late he'd had every Crowder in Harlan County trying to give him a hot foot. Seemed like too much of a headache to try to remember. Raylan wasn't dead yet, wasn't that scared of being dead when it came to it, but if this was his last respite before the sadists' tea party to follow, he wasn't going to sit around thinking about how he might have been stupid. Raylan's mouth twitched in the smallest of grins. Rather think about Ava in that one little flimsy nightshirt thing of hers, crawlin' over the cheap covers of his bed toward him, that particular look in her eye.

-o-o-o-

Tim Gutterson didn't mind giving up some of his accumulated leave for Raylan. Givens had, fuck, charisma to hell and back, sure. And maybe there was something in Tim that responded especially to someone who just seemed, naturally, to lead. Like it was a given everyone would follow. More than that, Tim wasn't the kind of man to leave a fellow marshal languishing in the hands of some pretty bad men. Chief Deputy Mullen had presented Tim with the situation in a way that hadn't been an order, hadn't quite been, "Go fix this up by any means necessary because if we have to wait on warrants coming through and forensic evidence, Raylan Givens will be just another mutilated body washing up on the Florida coast and spoiling some family's vacation." But it wasn't like they didn't both know the score.

Also wasn't like Tim didn't still have favors he could call in, at least one last time. And it would be the last time, asking for help against a drug cartel. It was sort of reassuring that Mullen thought so highly of Tim's skills. It also scared him shitless, because extracting Raylan Givens was definitely not going to be a cakewalk. Besides, flying down, he couldn't carry the kind of firepower this job was going to need. Some days it seemed like it'd be easier to be one of the bad guys.

-o-o-o

Art hated to send Tim off that way, in spite of the young man's reassurances that he knew what he had to do and that everything would be fine. Raylan Givens might be a pain in the ass, but he was Art's pain in the ass. Art sat behind his desk doing the paperwork to turn Raylan's abduction and Tim's rescue effort into a spring break for two high spirited deputies.

Paperwork completed, he leaned back in his chair and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a glass. Raylan was hell on his liver. He poured a measure of the smooth, aged, liquor. Wasn't like he was still here in the office due to cowardice, but if he and Raylan and Tim were all gone, people would sit up and take notice. That wasn't in Raylan's best interest. Let the AUSA sniffing around Raylan get wind of this and it'd turn into some kind of honey pot to bring down as much of the cartel as possible. Raylan's safe return to Kentucky, whether he wanted to be here or not, would be last on the list of priorities.

Didn't mean Art had to like sending someone else to do his job. Raylan was his responsibility. And, Art grudgingly conceded to the bottom of the glass, Raylan was probably what he'd consider a friend too. Monumental pain in the ass of a friend, but nevertheless.

-o-o-o

Raylan's time of quiet contemplation didn't last overly long. The young punks who came to fetch him spoke over his head to each other in Spanish, rapid fire, amused, sarcastic, the meaning coming through loud and clear- Raylan was about to be someone's pinata. Punk Numero Uno uncuffed Raylan from the pipe.

Raylan surged up energetically, a burst of speed putting his feet under him and throwing Punk Numero Uno's hands off as he shrugged into a stance ready to throw tight punches. Punk Numero Dos crowded in close, and Raylan dropped him with a head butt, perhaps ill thought out in light of how much his skull ached, but at least effective.

Punk Numero Uno backed off a step, and Raylan followed, throwing a cross toward his nose. Uno had some fighting experience and bobbed under the punch, coming up with an uppercut that clipped Raylan's chin. He staggered and stepped back to find Dos on his feet again in the small space, swearing heavily in Spanish and grabbing for Raylan's arms. Raylan kicked out backwards, feeling a small satisfaction when he heard a grunt of pain from Dos. Must have got him somewhere sensitive. But Uno was on top of him again, following up the uppercut with a barrage of blows, and Raylan was moving too slow to block more than half of them.

If he was to get out before he got taken down, Raylan had to act decisively. Uno was wearing a pistol tucked into his waistband, which was the kind of gangster machismo that got men's balls accidentally blown off. It was convenient. Raylan's hand snaked out and he grabbed the pistol, shooting Uno with no hesitation or compunction.

Dos apparently remembered that he, too, was a heavily armed young man. As the first punk hit the floor, bleeding from a close range wound in his thigh, Raylan felt the unmistakeable press of metal at the back of his neck.

Raylan raised his hands, letting Uno's gun dangle from one finger. Whether these boys just hadn't been in many close quarters fights, or hadn't picked on anyone willing to fight back, he didn't know. But Dos keeping the gun right where Raylan could _feel_ it, while ordering him forward, with a harsh, "Move!" was like a gift from a benevolent deity. Couldn't ask for a much easier disarm than being walked forward by someone at that tight range. Hell, even half concussed and definitely off his game, that was practically taking candy from a baby.

-o-o-o-

Tim exited the terminal into the sticky Miami heat, his overnight bag on his shoulder. He peered out into the light, looking for Sam Axe, ex-Navy seal, often drunk, but always reliable in a pinch. Sam, resplendent in a Hawaiian shirt and five o'clock shadow waved Tim over to a shiny black Charger. The man poised against the driver's side door looked lean and dangerous; and in possession of both a remarkable posture and poker face. It looked like Tim was going to end up owing favors on this one.

The lean, dangerous man held out his hand as Tim approached.

"I'm Michael Westen. Sam tells me you have a problem."

Tim looked at Sam. Sam wiggled his eyebrows in a fairly reassuring fashion.

"Tim Gutterson." Tim shook Michael's offered hand. "A friend of mine has a big problem."

Within an hour, Tim realized he was going to end up owing Michael, Sam, and Michael's willowy possible-girlfriend Fiona more than Sam had ever owed him for a particular spot of well-timed covering fire in a tight corner. Also, the three seemed exceptionally calm considering that they were aware they were playing games with US Marshals, and playing fast and loose with the sort of ordinance that ought to prompt Tim to some serious law enforcing.

Under the circumstances, those being that Raylan was probably running low on time, Tim was grateful.

-o-o-o

Raylan made it of the door of the small room he'd been held in before swiftly stepping around and bending back Dos's arm, forcing the gun out of his hand with a pop that spoke of the young punk's trigger finger breaking.

That would have been more satisfying if the feat wasn't met with laughter.

Raylan took in his surroundings. The room he'd been confined in was a standalone shed, presumably for storing pool gear. A large plantation-style house loomed across a manicured lawn. Raylan stood now, in his boxers, with the cursing punk clutching his injured hand between his legs, beside a swimming pool and surrounded by languidly deadly men, all older than the two punks sent to uncuff him and bring him out of the shed, all armed and not stupid enough to be within grabbing range.

"Very good, Senor Givens, very good!" One of the men clapped. He was balding and carried extra weight around his middle, but his eyes were the dead, flat eyes of a stone killer.

"Now drop any guns you may have acquired, and get on your knees."

Raylan hesitated, a gun in each hand. Uno's gun was still dangling from his fingers where he'd held it to show he was no threat as Dos walked him forward, but Dos's gun was in a comfortable grip. He calculated how many of these evil bastards he could take down before they took him down.

"Quickly, Raylan." The man rolled the 'r' in Raylan's name. "Drop them, now."

The odds were too great. And Raylan was still alive, and intended to stay that way if he could. He dropped the guns.

The dead-eyed man gave a satisfied smile, raised his gun, and shot Raylan clean through the leg, about where Raylan'd shot Punk Numero Uno.

Raylan fell, hands pressed over his thigh.

"Felipe may be stupid, but he's my nephew, so I can't let your rashness go unpunished." Dead-eye said. So that was Punk Numero Uno's name. Felipe. Jesus, ouch, Raylan hoped Felipe was hurting every bit as much as he was right now.

"Senor Givens." Dead-eye spoke again, looming over Raylan where he lay on the ground. "You seem to make a habit of doing things that I cannot allow to go unanswered. And I think you will understand that you cannot have a quick death. However, I am not myself fond of torture, so I shall leave you in the hands of my capable lieutenants. Try not to shoot anyone else."

"Obliged." Raylan gritted out through teeth pressed tightly together. He didn't hardly see himself as the maiden in distress type, waiting for someone to ride in for the rescue, but if there was some slim chance of a cavalry coming, or of him hauling his crippled ass out of this mess through force of personality and a quick hand, a slow death was better.

He'd try to remember that reasoning later. The loafer-clad foot coming down on his shot leg was expected. Hurt like hell, but no surprise there. Getting dragged over to the pool and shoved face first in, the rest of him sprawled on the tiled deck while his head was pushed under, over and over, that was a new one. Raylan gave serious consideration to the fact that he could have lived happily without ever finding out what it felt like almost to drown. Again and again, until his lungs were aching and his throat raw.

The big upside to nearly drowning was that Raylan's head felt like it was floating in the clouds by the time he was pulled out for the serious beating to begin.

-o-o-o-

Tim felt sort of guilty for not calling Chief Deputy Mullen before going forward with this operation. But it was better all round if there was plausible deniability. There might still be a need for the Chief Deputy's clout if things went south. Not that he didn't trust the three oddball, but extremely experienced vigilantes that he'd picked up by asking for his old buddy Sam's help. But that was still four versus the cartel. And god only knew what state Raylan was in by now. In Tim's pregame mode of calm, there was absolutely no room for thinking about if Raylan was dead or alive. The job was simply to go in, get Raylan out if he was alive, or just get back out in one piece if he wasn't.

Tim's job didn't even involve setting foot on the cartel property where Raylan was being held. How Westen had gone from a matchbook from a racy night club (Tim figured one day he'd have to go there just to see what it was like to sit around on a mattress with a bunch of supermodels) to the exact location where Raylan had been taken, Tim didn't even want to know.

Almost certainly it hadn't been by legal means. At this point, what were a few legalities between friends?

Tim's job involved the high ground, up a utility pole in a uniform that once again, came from a mysterious benefactor, ready to lay down any and all covering fire that was needed to get Raylan out in one piece.

Fiona was on explosive diversion duty. Sam and Westen were taking care of the extraction.

Tim watched through the scope on his rifle. There were times when he'd been tempted to take unauthorized shots against the very worst of the worst while he was deployed. Anyone would be tempted to take out a known murderer, or the kind of man who'd use children as his human shields. The same red feeling washed through him as he had to sit quiet and watch subhuman scum laugh and joke as they tortured his partner, his friend. He didn't get to be an Army ranger through lack of discipline, and it was purely by the thread of that discipline that Tim kept his rage reigned in, waiting for a word through his earpiece from Westen.

Over by the front entrance to the gracious estate, Tim heard the sound of grenades. Fiona doing what she, apparently, did best. It was a good thing the place was set out away from the neighboring properties, other, similar temples to excess with hand clipped lawns and blue swimming pools. Tim kept his visual focus tight. Fiona could, according to Sam, take care of herself.

Michael Westen's calm, quiet voice came through the earpiece. "Seven, eight." Westen indicated the targets at seven and eight o'clock to Tim's position. The men had turned away from beating Raylan, swinging around to look toward the source of the explosions. Gutterson lined up two perfect shots. The roaring berserker part of him regretted that they were merely at the feet of his targets. No sane man liked to shoot to kill, but it was still hard not to sit in judgement on those bastards. Tim knew that later, for both strategic and personal reasons, he'd feel vast relief that the plan avoided using him as an executioner. Right now he didn't have that distance.

The men by the pool scattered in disarray, leaving Raylan Givens lying on the ground. Tim watched Raylan, willing him to at least try to move by his own self. The men hadn't had a chance to land more than a few good kicks on Raylan, but he was losing blood from the shot to the leg, and god knows how close he'd come to drowning.

Sam and Westen came over the fence and hauled Raylan up, one under each arm. Tim kept watch, making one or two shots when the cowardly men who'd retreated back toward the big house showed any signs of offering trouble.

"Time to bug out, ol' buddy." Sam's voice came through Tim's earpiece. Tim slung his rifle over his shoulder and shimmed down the ladder leaning on the utility pole. Apparently Westen's people were used to screwing around in disguises, in high places, with explosives, all kinds of things Gutterson was not ever, officially, going to think about. Not when he owed them Raylan's life.

Fiona came roaring around the corner in the van acquired from somewhere it was apparently best he didn't know. Tim climbed in the double back door to find Sam applying pressure to Raylan's leg.

Raylan strained upward from the floor of the van, propping himself up on his elbows. He looked disoriented. Hell, he looked like he could use a fifth of whiskey and a good night's sleep for that matter. Probably what he'd prescribe for himself given a choice.

"Tim..." he croaked.

"Yeah Raylan?"

"Think I need swimming lessons."

"Raylan."

"Yeah, Tim."

"Think you need brain surgery."

"Thanks."

-o-o-o-

There was no flying back to Kentucky with a man with a wide assortment of bruises, a lump on his forehead, a bullet hole in his leg that would really need better seeing to than Sam Axe wrapping it pretty good in the back of a moving vehicle, and a wracking persistent cough that lasted long after the last chlorinated pool water came back up.

Westen obviously didn't need them crashing out at his super secret loft, and besides, Tim had a need to get Raylan back where there were folks with a lick of sense to watch out for him. Even Ava Crowder would probably do a pretty good job of playing Florence Nightingale.

The whole thing was a lot too close to some of Tim's old nightmares anyway. Just because this time the good guys got out without a body count didn't mean he wanted to stick around.

It was hard to believe it'd only been eighteen hours since Mullen went to roust out Raylan to drag him to a crime scene and found him gone. Tim'd gone much longer without sleep before, and some serious cuban coffee and the windows wound down on the cheap rental car should hold him back to Lexington.

Raylan was stretched out in the back seat, under a blanket thanks to Fiona, who seemed to have a soft spot for idiots with no sense of self-preservation. Tim juggled the coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, steering with his knees.

"US Marshals' Office. Chief Deputy Mullen."

"Yeah, boss, it's Gutterson. We got him back."

"In one piece?"

Tim sighed. "He'll do."

"Shit."

"I know."

Unspoken between them was that this was just the first time; there will be more. Givens isn't stupid, but he's just one man, and he seems to collect enemies like other people collect snowglobes, a happy little souvenir of wherever he last went. Gutterson just ended up owing one scary fucker for bailing Raylan out this time.

What the hell are they going to do when they're all out of favors, and running short on luck?


End file.
